


Foggy Windows

by WillowBlueJay17



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Drama, Family, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Spoilers, Fluff, Gen, I have no idea when the spoiler this fic has takes place in the game cause I saw it out of context, brief mentions of byleth's mom, brief mentions of violence, fe16 spoilers, so here I am writing the pain away, yeah so I accidentally spoiled myself about a certain something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 11:26:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20045215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WillowBlueJay17/pseuds/WillowBlueJay17
Summary: If eyes were the windows to the soul, then Byleth had the foggiest windows Jeralt had ever seen. But, slowly and carefully, Jeralt cleared little patches in the fog, getting a better understanding of the emotions that were hidden within. COMPLETED!





	Foggy Windows

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I'm back with a fic much faster than I had anticipated because I accidentally spoiled my dumb ass about a certain moment that anyone who played the game will know. To make a long story short, I was trying to watch some videos on YouTube, carefully avoiding spoilers for anything Three Houses related despite the recommended videos trying to screw me over. And at one point I accidentally misclicked on a video. The thing is, I didn't realize it because after I clicked on what I thought was the right video, I got distracted by my mom calling me about something and walked away, leaving the video playing without realizing what video it was because it apparently had no music or anything. Only to come back and see THAT cutscene with Jeralt. Yeah...So, here I am trying to write my sadness away...Enjoy!

If eyes were considered the windows to the soul, then Byleth had the foggiest windows Jeralt had ever seen.

For the average person, their eyes gave away so much of their true feelings. The slightest twitch, the dilation of the pupils, a quick movement. All were clues that Jeralt had memorized, that he relied upon to keep himself alive, to discern people’s true intentions, to see their honest emotions. 

And yet his own son’s emotions were the biggest mystery to him.

Everything about Byleth’s birth had been suspicious, from the strange level of interest Archbishop Rhea had in it to how Jeralt hadn’t been allowed to see his wife and child for hours upon hours, only to be handed his far too quiet infant son and be told that his wife died from complications.

They didn’t let him see her body, didn’t even let him say goodbye, one last time…

But he couldn’t focus on his grief, raw and painful as it was, for Byleth needed him. Jeralt’s wife was gone, and she had told him she was an orphan and an only child for as long as she could remember. Jeralt never had siblings and his own parents had died when he was a teenager. Meaning he and Byleth only had each other left in the world. However, it became obvious far too quickly that something was off about Byleth.

The boy never cried once.

Too many people, from his own parents when he was a child to the old grannies in the villages near Garreg Mach Monastery, had warned him time and time again that sleep would become a thing of the past if he ever became a father. Babies would cry about anything and everything, making sure that anyone unlucky enough to be in their radius would be up soon enough. His wife had even warned him in the months before Byleth’s birth, somewhat jokingly, that if Jeralt didn’t take better care of himself in battles then she would drink the strongest sleeping draughts before bed, forcing Jeralt to handle things alone if their child started crying at night.

Sleep did indeed become a thing of the past after Byleth was born. But only because Jeralt would wake up at least once an hour to check on his son, since Byleth refused to give any sign that he needed anything. Not a single cry, not one tear. At first people told him to count his blessings that he had been gifted such a peaceful baby. But days turned to weeks and then turned to months. Yet Byleth would never cry, forcing Jeralt to be far more attentive than other parents would normally be, otherwise he wouldn’t know how Byleth felt. 

Was his son hungry? Did he need to be changed? Was he ill? Was he hurt? Was he lonely? These were all questions Jeralt had to ask himself constantly, Byleth staring at him blankly all the while.

Not to mention that Rhea was still way too interested in the child…

Jeralt eventually managed to escape the Knights of Seiros, escape Rhea, with Byleth in tow. The pair found a small, distant village to settle in, with Jeralt taking on some odd jobs for money while he raised his quiet son.

Jeralt hoped, foolish as said hope was, that Byleth truly was just a peaceful baby. That he was fretting over nothing, filled with those “new father jitters” he had heard so much about. Maybe far too stressed and drained from the loss of the love of his life, searching for problems that didn’t exist. He hoped that once Byleth could speak and walk on his own, the tears would come. Honestly, had there ever been any other parent so desperate to see their child cry?

But Byleth turned a year old, then turned two years old, then three, and so on and so forth. But the tears never once came. Not when Byleth fell flat on his face a dozen times while learning to walk. Not when he fell down a large hill, scraping his knees and arms badly and fracturing his ankle. Not when he burned his hand when he got too close to the fireplace. Not one single tear…

But that wasn’t all.

Byleth never laughed either, not when playing or when being tickled. When the boy learned to talk, he would speak in the briefest sentences and give the shortest answers. He wasn’t chatty like the other children in the village, which made those children uncomfortable around him and the adults gossip about him. He always went around with a blank face, a neutral expression that didn’t change from day to day.

Well, more accurately, _barely_ ever changed…

When he once broke a toy horse that Jeralt had whittled for him, Byleth let out a frustrated huff before holding it out for Jeralt to fix, brow furrowed slightly. When a stray dog had suddenly popped out of a bush and let out a loud bark, Byleth jumped before clutching Jeralt’s hand, eyebrows raised high and eyes subtly wider than before. 

And sometimes, on the _rarest_ of occasions, the corners of Byleth’s mouth would tug up ever so slightly in the smallest of smiles. A smile so achingly gentle and dear that Jeralt knew if it were directed at him more often, Byleth would be one of the most spoiled children in all of Fodlan. As if he wasn’t already struggling enough not to give into the boy’s every whim with what little money they had.

Jeralt loved his son with all he had, with every fiber of his being. But he would be lying if he said the supposed lack of emotions didn’t bother him. Jeralt could easily decipher the thoughts of the sharpest assassins or shrewdest nobles. But the feelings of his own child, a boy barely reaching his knee, were a mystery to him.

Byleth’s eyes were dull, not a flicker of light in them. Foggy windows that could only reveal the faintest shadows of what was hidden behind them.

…What kind of father was he? A man who was uncertain around his own child?

He knew several people in the village questioned him as a parent too. He heard the whispers, knew about the rumors. Especially certain rumors that claimed Byleth was the way he was because Jeralt must be mistreating him. When he heard people speaking as if he would _dare_ harm his son, he wanted to scream at them until his voice gave out.

And yet he also understood. He had been around long enough, had travelled far enough, that he had seen plenty of children suffering under poor excuses of guardians. Children who could only be described as empty shells, barely ever showing a trace of emotion on their young faces. And he knew if he argued with the villagers, they would only take it as him being defensive and the rumors would only get worse from there on.

He would _never_ hurt Byleth…But he wondered if perhaps he wasn’t much of a father after all. He wondered if maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t trying hard enough. Wasn’t doing enough. 

Wasn’t the life he envisioned for his family so much more than living in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere, living on meager wages?

Those thoughts echoed in the back of his mind for years, echoed throughout him at that moment as he lay on a thin bed, his son, only five years old, laying beside him. Their house was small and empty, with only the bed and a small table with a couple chairs. Winter had arrived, a chilly wind blowing through the cracks in the walls. Jeralt couldn’t sleep, choosing to stare at his son, the two of them alone in the dark, cold room…

“Papa?”

It was embarrassing that Jeralt startled at the small voice when he had never flinched while facing dozens of soldiers before. Byleth was staring up at him, face as neutral as ever, not looking the slightest bit tired.

“Why’re you awake?” Jeralt asked as he propped himself up on an elbow, adjusting the blanket on Byleth, “You’re not sleepy?”

Byleth simply hummed in response, snuggling into the blanket.

“Not sleepy?” Byleth asked him in return.

“No, I don’t think I am…That doesn’t mean you get to stay up though. Kids need to sleep if they wanna grow up into strong adults.”

“Okay.”

Usually children Byleth’s age would start a fuss when told to sleep, but Byleth easily accepted these things. He went to bed on time, ate all his vegetables without a complaint, came in to wash up after playing without arguing to stay out longer. He never once questioned Jeralt’s words…

Was it a sign he trusted Jeralt, that even though he was so young he believed Jeralt knew what he was talking about? Or was he afraid to disagree, and Jeralt had been blind to it the whole time?

Why couldn’t he be sure about how his own son felt about him?

“Byleth,” Jeralt whispered. He waited for Byleth to look up at him with those blue eyes of his before continuing, “…Do you like me?”

The second the words left his mouth, he wished to crawl under the nearest rock and die from shame. What kind of question was _that_? What was he, a child trying to gauge the feelings of his puppy love? Of all the idiotic-

“Yes.”

The answer, steady and unhesitating, made him pause. Byleth stared at him, waiting for his response.

“Yes?” Jeralt repeated, brushing some of Byleth’s bangs out of his eyes.

“Uh-huh,” he answered, grabbing Jeralt’s much larger hand in his own smaller ones, observing it carefully as he traced Jeralt’s fingers and palm.

“…Do you know…_why_ you like me?”

Byleth didn’t answer, didn’t seem to even hear the question, too focused on Jeralt’s hand. Jeralt considered laying down and going back to sleep, figuring that he wasn’t going to get much else out of the boy.

“I like the food you make,” Byleth said simply, holding Jeralt’s hand to his chest as he made eye contact with him. 

“The…food?” Jeralt coughed to cover up the laugh that nearly burst out of him.

“It tastes good,” Byleth told him, adding a nod for emphasis.

Jeralt couldn’t hold back that time, letting out a loud laugh at the words. So, his cooking was what his son liked about him, huh? Well, he supposed that was what he got for asking such a question to a child as young as Byleth. When he looked back down at Byleth, the boy’s eyebrows were knitted together as he returned Jeralt’s gaze.

“I’m not laughing at you, Byleth,” Jeralt assured him, “Thank you. I’m glad you like my food.”

Byleth didn’t respond to him, simply going back to looking over Jeralt’s hand.

“I like your hands,” Byleth said, pressing one of his own hands flat against Jeralt’s palm, “I want big hands.”

“…They’ll grow when you get older,” he replied, watching Byleth stretching his small, so, _so_ small, hand against Jeralt’s palm, as if to make it grow bigger.

Truthfully, Byleth already took after his mother with his hair and eyes, so Jeralt wouldn’t be surprised if he also inherited her slender figure and smaller hands instead of Jeralt’s bulkier form. 

Seemingly satisfied with Jeralt’s response, Byleth released Jeralt’s hand. He scooted closer to Jeralt’s body, curling against his chest. Jeralt let out a soft chuckle at the action, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Byleth’s head before laying down himself, an arm wrapping around his son.

Perhaps Jeralt was overthinking things…

~~~~~~~~

By the time Byleth was ten years old, Jeralt was the famed leader of a mercenary company. Jeralt knew he couldn’t keep doing simple jobs forever, not if he wished to adequately provide for his child. So, once Byleth was seven years old, Jeralt decided his fighting skills could be put to use in the mercenary business. He was a bit out of practice with fighting, but he knew he had the strength and skill for it. He also made several connections across Fodlan during his time as a knight, connections he could use to build his own team. A team he could trust in battle and trust around his young son. It took time but he eventually built a reliable mercenary company, with himself as the unshakable leader. He was able to find a horse that rivaled the strong steed he rode during his time as a member of the Knights of Seiros. He was even able to move Byleth to a better village, to a bigger home with more furniture. There was more money to buy better things for Byleth: better clothes, food, books. 

It still wasn’t what he had always dreamed for his child, but it was better than what they had before.

As Byleth was still a child, he would stay home during mercenary assignments, a few other members of the company staying behind to care for him. The first few times he left Byleth behind, Jeralt would be told by his fellow mercenaries that the boy would hide himself away, refusing to speak or look at anyone until Jeralt’s return.

“I prefer to be alone,” Byleth would answer when Jeralt questioned him about it. Byleth’s face was as impassive as ever, but Jeralt had grown adept at recognizing the subtle hints that gave away the boy’s true emotions. Such as the way one of his fingers was slowly tapping on the table, a hint that Byleth was thinking of something else, “Don’t worry about me, Papa.”

“Are you bored, being left behind?” Jeralt would ask him, an eyebrow raised as Byleth stopped tapping. 

“…Teach me to fight. I want to come with you when I’m strong enough.”

Jeralt didn’t know if he wanted the mercenary life for Byleth. Was his son interested in such a life, filled with nothing but risks, blood, and death? But, at the very least, teaching him how to defend himself wouldn’t be a waste. Jeralt would worry a little less, just a tiny bit less, if he knew his son had some ability to protect himself, should the worst happen while Jeralt was off on an assignment. And so, between missions, Jeralt would teach Byleth how to fight, starting with hand-to-hand combat and moving on to using everyday items, such as a small kitchen knife or a chair.

The boy was definitely a fast learner, picking up techniques quicker than the much older recruits in the company. The other mercenaries would praise Byleth, calling him a natural born fighter, encouraging him to officially become part of the company when he was older. While Byleth appeared unaffected by the praise, the way he would strike harder and faster in the next practice match said plenty of how he felt. 

…A natural born fighter, huh? Byleth’s skills couldn’t be denied. But he had never shown any interest in fights before. In fact, Jeralt would often speak of his old battles, carefully leaving out specific details of who he was fighting for, before bedtime, knowing those stories put Byleth to sleep the quickest. Where had the sudden interest in fighting come from?

Jeralt couldn’t figure it out…until he took an escort job that would lead him all the way to the often volatile border between Faerghus and Adrestia. The nature of the mission, keeping some merchants safe on their way home, and the distance they would have to travel would keep Jeralt away from home for around three weeks. Much longer than either father or son was used to.

“You’re really going?” Byleth asked the morning Jeralt was set to leave, stepping behind where Jeralt was seated at the table.

“The pay’s good and it’s an area I’m mostly familiar with,” Jeralt responded as he stood up and faced his son, “Besides, those guys seemed pretty desperate. Apparently, no one else they asked was willing to travel the area.”

Byleth let out a low hum, meeting Jeralt’s gaze with a look that gave nothing away. Well, nothing that would be obvious to a stranger. Those eyes were still foggy, but slowly and carefully Jeralt had managed to clear some patches on the windows over the years.

With a sigh, Jeralt placed a hand atop Byleth’s head, ruffling his teal hair and trying not to chuckle at the way Byleth leaned into the touch, as though the boy was a cat. 

“I’ll be home sooner than you think…”

“I know, Papa.”

Jeralt didn’t miss the slightest shift in Byleth’s tone that said much more than straightforward words ever could. He wished he had more time to talk with Byleth and reassure him, but he was due to meet with the merchants soon. All he could do was remind Byleth to be good for the mercenaries staying behind with him and to keep up with his training. 

The journey to the border took the better part of two weeks thanks to poor weather constantly delaying the group. But it was an otherwise smooth journey, and without the merchants to escort on the way back, Jeralt was certain he could return home in a week’s time at most. 

But, as usual, life decided it wished to have the last laugh on him.

The mercenaries dropped off the merchants and received their pay easily enough. The merchants were rather excited. There was something off about just how excited they were, the way their smiles and praises didn’t reflect in their eyes. But the mission was officially over at that point, so Jeralt chose not to investigate it.

And then, when they were less than a mile into their journey back home and stuck in a downpour that made the ground muddy and slippery, bandits struck. Many of them.

It was suspicious. There were no signs of bandits anywhere near them when they had travelled the area earlier. The bandits knew so much of their general fighting styles. Most suspicious of all, the bandits seemed to know which of the mercenaries were carrying the pay they had received from the merchants.

…_Of course_. It wasn’t something he saw often, but he _had_ seen such cases before. He had handled a couple of them back when he was a knight. There would be some exceptionally stingy merchants who wanted safe travel but didn’t want to pay the costs to get reliable mercenaries to guard them. And so, such merchants would make deals with bandits. So long as the bandits retrieved the money from the mercenaries, the bandits could have a cut of it. 

Well, that explained the merchants’ unusual excitement earlier…

Usually fighting some bandits would be child’s play. On any other occasion Jeralt would probably be able to handle the lot of them by himself. But the downpour was lowering visibility and making movement and accuracy next to impossible. The mercenaries were all getting hurt badly, Jeralt included.

But Byleth was waiting for him. He would _not_ make his son an orphan.

And so, even though he’d been shot by three arrows, he pressed on. Even though he’d been stabbed in the leg and was bleeding profusely, he pressed on. Even though a javelin had pierced his abdomen, he pressed on. Even though he took a blow to the head with the side of an axe, his head pounding and vision swimming, he pressed on and on, mowing down all the bandits in his path.

Eventually there were corpses upon corpses laying in the mud. Jeralt counted and briefly closed his eyes upon realizing three of his own men were among those corpses.

Jeralt slowly dismounted from his steed, the ache in his head growing with each passing minute, stars in his vision, his heart racing and a sense of nausea building within him.

The last thing he knew was that he was falling to the ground, several voices yelling out for him.

When Jeralt came to, he was in an unfamiliar bed. His hand quickly reached out for a weapon that wasn’t there as he sat up, letting out a groan and falling back at the shot of pain that pulsed through his abdomen at the sudden movement. 

“You’re awake, sir!”

He focused on the voice and saw several of his fellow mercenaries either laying in other beds or standing by his own bed. They told him that they returned to the town they had dropped the mercenaries off in in order to get medical treatment for everyone, and to bury their fallen comrades. They were currently in a small hospital.

“The doctor gave us a hefty discount as thanks for handling those merchant dastards,” one of the mercenaries stated with a grin on his face, “Apparently they’re not very popular around here. They’re constantly pulling dangerous stunts like this.”

“What do you mean, ‘handling them’?” Jeralt asked, somewhat worried about what happened while he was out.

“They’re alive, don’t you worry about that!” another of the mercenaries reassured him, her eyes blazing, “Bloodied and beaten within an inch of their lives, but alive. And turned over to the local authorities for the shit they tried to pull on us.”

Jeralt didn’t know whether to scold his men for the violence or scold them for not waiting for him to wake up so he could join them. But what was done was done, he supposed. That being said…

“Who wants to tell me how long I was out for?” he asked, not being able to bring himself to glance at a nearby calendar. 

“Umm…About a week…”

By the time Jeralt and his fellow mercenaries were given the okay to travel again, it had been just over a month since he left home. By the time the group managed to return home to their village, their pace slowed down by not wanting to reopen their wounds, they had officially been away for a month and a half rather than three weeks they had expected the mission to take. The others told Jeralt they had sent a message to the village while he was out so everyone back home wouldn’t panic at their delay. 

Once they arrived, they were welcomed by their fellow mercenaries and many others from the village, praising them for their hard work, congratulating them for making it back alive, or otherwise worrying over the wounds they received. Jeralt nodded a few times to acknowledge their words, but he forced his way through the crowds in the direction of his house. 

When he opened the door to his house, several more from his mercenary company welcomed him back happily and fretted over his wounds. As he tried to assure them he was alright, he heard a series of footsteps rapidly approaching.

Byleth ran into the room, panting as he stared at Jeralt with eyes wider than Jeralt had ever seen them, his mouth slightly agape. 

…The circles under Byleth’s eyes were so dark. And he was skinnier than when Jeralt had last seen him. He was standing still, as if frozen in place, just staring at Jeralt.

“Hey, kid…” Jeralt’s voice was barely a whisper, taking a couple cautious steps forward, “Listen, I can’t begin to tell you how-”

Jeralt’s words were cut off as a small weight crashed into him. Byleth’s arms locked around him, his face pressing against Jeralt, right where one of his worse wounds was. But Jeralt grit his teeth, forcing himself not to utter a noise as Byleth held onto him. Byleth didn’t let out a single sound, wasn’t shaking or crying. But his arms kept moving across Jeralt’s back, as if he couldn’t hold him tight enough. 

…It had been _far_ too long since he had last seen his son…

Ignoring the ache coursing through him, Jeralt picked Byleth up. He couldn’t get a good look at Byleth’s face before the boy latched his arms around Jeralt’s neck, pressing his face against the point where Jeralt’s neck and shoulder met, his legs locking around Jeralt’s body as well. 

“I’m sorry, Byleth,” Jeralt murmured as he gently rubbed his son’s back, his face buried in Byleth’s hair.

“I’ve been practicing a lot,” Byleth said, words muffled against Jeralt’s skin, “I’ll work harder from now on, so I can become a mercenary faster. I promise, Papa.”

_“…Teach me to fight. I want to come with you when I’m strong enough.”_

…Oh…So _that_ explained Byleth’s sudden interest in fighting… 

Byleth wouldn’t let go of him for quite a while. If Jeralt was being honest, he didn’t want to let go either.

~~~~~~~~

Byleth’s skills in combat only grew as years and years passed. By the time he was fourteen years old, everyone in the company insisted that Byleth be brought along on actual missions. His abilities would only stagnate if they waited until Byleth was older, they told Jeralt. And Jeralt, as much as he hated to admit it, agreed. Byleth had nothing more to learn from sticking only to practice sessions. He needed field experience. Even if Jeralt had been against it, Byleth had grown stubborn in recent years. He would force his way onto a mission, one way or another, if Jeralt didn’t give him the okay.

And so Jeralt found himself bringing his son along on missions. Jeralt refused to take him on larger, more dangerous, missions. He would only bring him on local assignments, short escort missions or quick bandit raids. 

Byleth seemed annoyed by the simple assignments if the way his nose scrunched up momentarily and the way his gaze wandered when Jeralt gave the mission brief were anything to go by. But he took every job seriously, his face the picture of calm, making him look so much older than he was. 

“Byleth, now that you’re coming along on assignments, you need to understand something,” Jeralt had told him once before Byleth’s very first mission, “A mercenary’s life is never guaranteed. Every mission-”

“Every mission, no matter how simple, poses a risk,” Byleth had continued for him, “Death and injuries can wait around any corner, be hidden in the most innocuous of places. You yourself can just as easily bring death to others. Understand those risks and do all you can to defy them as you complete your missions. I know, Father, I’ve heard you give that speech to the new recruits a dozen times.”

“…I see…But do you truly understand and accept that?”

“Yes.”

There wasn’t a second of hesitation, a shred of doubt. Byleth hadn’t even looked at him when he answered, his gaze fixed firmly forward.

It worried Jeralt more than he let on. When Jeralt was a teenager, before his very first battle, he had thought long and hard about the idea of taking a life. He agonized over it for hours and hours, to the point of getting next to no sleep. He had been older than Byleth at that time. And yet here was his son, only fourteen years old, calmly accepting the idea that any mission might spell his end. That any mission meant he might take a life. It was as if death wasn’t even a second thought to him. 

Despite Byleth’s firm insistence that he was ready to kill or be killed, Jeralt couldn’t wholly accept it. If Byleth was involved in fights, Jeralt would land the killing blow himself. He would order a couple of his men to be with Byleth at all times to limit the risks the boy faced. Jeralt would constantly assign Byleth to what he felt were the least dangerous roles in their missions.

The other mercenaries laughed at Jeralt and told him that the boy would never grow as a mercenary if Jeralt kept mollycoddling him. Byleth himself wasn’t pleased with being protected either, doing all he could to escape his bodyguards or staring pointedly at Jeralt when his kill was stolen from him.

Jeralt knew that…He knew that he had no right to act like a protective father when he was the one who allowed his son, a boy barely into his teenage years, to become a mercenary…

But Jeralt’s protection couldn’t last forever. When Byleth was fifteen years old, he finally scored his first kill. A bandit that had been part of a group raiding a nearby village. Once all the other bandits had been taken care of, Jeralt found Byleth standing perfectly still with a bloody sword in one hand, staring at the bandit’s corpse. 

Jeralt sighed at the sight. So, despite Byleth’s easy acceptance of the risks of being a mercenary, he wasn’t as prepared for it as he always claimed he was. Jeralt walked up to Byleth, threading his fingers through the boy’s hair in a slow, gentle manner.

“Are you alright, Byleth?” he asked as the pair stared at the dead body.

“I could’ve done this better,” Byleth responded, leaning against Jeralt’s side.

“What?”

Byleth stepped away from Jeralt, slowly walking around the corpse, a hand at his chin. It was as if he was…analyzing it.

“I slashed him across the chest and then stabbed him in the gut,” Byleth explained, pointing to the wounds on the bandit’s body, “It took a few minutes before he died. If I had aimed for his neck, I would have saved time and he would’ve died quicker. Right, Father?”

“…That’s true,” Jeralt muttered, watching as Byleth continued to slowly circle the corpse, pointing out mistakes that he made with a detached air.

A natural born fighter…Perhaps the others hadn’t been wrong about that after all. But how was he supposed to feel about that? Should he be relieved that the mercenary life wouldn’t be as destructive upon Byleth’s mind as he had feared? Should he be troubled by how simply Byleth accepted killing, going over his first kill as if reviewing a school assignment?

…How would his wife feel about Jeralt’s uncertainty, even after raising Byleth for fifteen years? Would she be disappointed in him…? If he closed his eyes, he could see her. Eyebrows knitted, mouth in a line, looking torn between crying and yelling at him…

However, some of Jeralt’s concerns vanished later that night, when he passed by Byleth’s room and saw the boy was still awake, sitting on his bed. In his hands was his sword, wiped clean of the blood from the earlier battle.

“Byleth,” he called as he entered the room. The boy didn’t flinch, eyes still fixed on the sword, “It’s late. Why’re you still up?”

“Hmm,” was all Byleth replied with as Jeralt sat down beside him.

The pair sat in silence for several minutes before Byleth stood up and returned his sword to its scabbard and leaned it against the wall. Byleth sat back down beside Jeralt, lacing his fingers loosely in his lap. 

“People make strange noises when they die,” Byleth told him quietly, “And they twitch a lot.”

…_Ah_…

“Death on the battlefield is never as simple as the storybooks make it look,” Jeralt said. Byleth looked up at him in that moment and, for just a moment, Jeralt saw a flicker in his eyes, “It’s often dirty, bloody, messy…If you’re lucky, you can get a swift death. It’ll be over before you even know what hit you…”

But only few people were that lucky. Most who died in battle had to suffer for a long while before darkness finally came over them.

“…Will my death be like that too?” Byleth asked as he stared at his hands.

Jeralt’s heart stopped for a moment at the idea of his child laying dead before him, bloodied and broken. The ache of his wife’s death was still so fresh, even after fifteen years. He had so many dreams of the short years they had together, of her brilliant smile and quiet dignity. He had just as many nightmares of the mysteries of the day he lost her, visions of her blaming him for not being there in her final moments, of not doing better for the son they loved, _she_ loved, so dearly.

If the day came that he had to bury Byleth as well, Jeralt wouldn’t last long in the world afterwards…

“So long as you keep your mind calm and your senses sharp, and make sure you practice diligently, it won’t be,” Jeralt finally said once his thoughts had calmed down, “…Do everything you can to make sure it won’t be…”

And Jeralt would do everything _he_ could to make sure of that too.

Byleth let out a hum in response, leaning against Jeralt’s side. Jeralt draped an arm across Byleth’s shoulders and pulled him closer, Byleth letting out a soft sigh.

“You too, Father…Do everything you can to avoid a death like that.”

“…A mercenary’s life is never guaranteed,” Jeralt’s voice was steady as he stared ahead, his arm slipping off Byleth’s shoulders only for his hand to gently rub the top of Byleth’s head, ruffling his hair, “Every mission, no matter how simple, poses a risk. Death and injuries can wait around any corner, be hidden in the most innocuous of places. You yourself can just as easily bring death to others. Understand those risks and do all you can to defy them as you complete your missions.”

Jeralt looked down at Byleth, who met his gaze with his usual neutral expression.

“Do you understand and accept that, Byleth?”

“…Yes.”

Strange as it may sound, Jeralt felt a twinge of relief at that second of hesitation before Byleth’s response.

~~~~~~~~

“Sorry…It looks like…I’m going to have to leave you now…”

How pathetic…After all the years of experience he had in battle, all the seemingly insurmountable odds he had overcome, this was how he fell. Being stabbed in the back. A cheap shot because he let his guard down for a moment around that little girl…

Perhaps his age was catching up to him…Perhaps his time at the monastery, the time around the other academy students, had dulled his senses…

Byleth held him in his arms as Jeralt closed his eyes tightly at the sharp pain spreading from his back. His heart was racing and his head pounding with each brief gasp of air he took. 

_Damn it_…He wanted more time. But…he could see _her_ again…Would she greet him happily after all these years? Scold him for not being careful like she had warned him? …Hmm, perhaps some mixture of both, knowing her…

As his body grew colder with each passing moment, he felt something wet fall onto his face…Droplets? Jeralt opened his eyes and looked up.

…_Tears_…Those were tears, clear as day, falling from Byleth’s eyes.

Byleth’s arms tightened around Jeralt as he pulled Jeralt closer to him. Byleth’s lips were trembling, his eyes shiny and wet. For the first time in Jeralt’s life, he could see light in those blue eyes.

“Father, please no,” Byleth choked out, voice trembling with each word. He took in an unsteady breath, “_Father_…”

Byleth repeated the word “father” in a quivering tone, over and over. The tears dripped down faster and faster, turning into streams that flowed down his face, dropping onto Jeralt’s skin. Byleth’s voice soon gave out as he could only let out short gasps.

His child was crying. He was crying for the first time in his life, crying over _him_. And yet, Jeralt could only close his eyes, a small smile on his face.

“To think that the first time I saw you cry…your tears would be for _me_.”

How desperate had he been during those early years, when Byleth was a baby, to see him cry? How many sleepless nights had passed because an infant Byleth would never utter a single noise, wouldn’t shed one tear? How many times had he seen Byleth get hurt and stare blankly at his wounds with nothing more than the slightest trace of a frown on his face? 

At some point, after years and years, he accepted the idea that Byleth wouldn’t cry. After all, the lack of tears wasn’t much of an issue after Byleth learned how to talk, even if his sentences back then were brief.

He never once considered the idea his son would shed tears for him.

“It’s sad, and yet…I’m happy for it.”

Jeralt always connected tears to physical pain. He never once considered grief.

…No, that wasn’t true…It wasn’t that he never thought about Byleth crying due to grief. He didn’t _want_ to think about it. He never wanted to address a worry buried deep in his heart, hidden so deep within that he hadn’t remembered it until now. A worry that Byleth may not mourn him when Jeralt died.

It was just him overthinking things. After all, while Byleth was never as emotive as other children growing up, Jeralt learned to see the signs for how the boy was truly feeling. Those little subtle hints, the slightest shift in his face, in his voice.

The way Byleth held his hand, the way Byleth clutched him after he came home late, the way Byleth always, _always_, leaned into his touch and stuck close to his side…

Jeralt wanted to laugh at the younger him who ever doubted his son’s love.

“…Thank you…kid…”

Time could freeze in that moment, giving Jeralt eternity, and yet it still wouldn’t be long enough. It would never be long enough to explain the depth of gratitude Jeralt had for Byleth.

How could he ever explain how grateful he was for all their years together? For those trying early years when Jeralt had no idea what he was doing? For all those times Byleth welcomed him back after mercenary jobs? For all their battles together, their talks, and all those silent moments? And even for all the trouble Byleth’s stubbornness caused as well?

How could he tell Byleth how grateful he was to have watched Byleth grow at the Officers Academy? As much as Jeralt didn’t like the idea of returning to the Knights of Seiros, returning to Rhea, he knew without a doubt Byleth was blossoming at the academy. His feelings showed on his face more. He was growing attached to other people, attached to his students. He talked so much more, interacted with others more. Jeralt had never seen him so content. Forget the mercenary life, perhaps teaching was Byleth’s true calling.

…How could he ever tell Byleth how grateful he was to have been his father? To have raised such a splendid young man?

The darkness closed in on Jeralt, the numbness spreading with each passing second. As his consciousness slowly faded, he heard Byleth let out a most wretched sob before burying his face against Jeralt’s chest. As everything turned to nothing, he could’ve sworn he heard a broken “Papa” muffled against his chest.

Oh, how he wished they had so much more time. He didn’t want to leave. But he felt satisfied in the end, a wave of peace flowing through him.

He had seen those foggy windows cleared, at long last…

**Author's Note:**

> You know, maybe I should be grateful that this cutscene was the only major story thing I got spoiled on. I paused the video after this scene and hadn't seen anything that happened before it so, hey. Small victories, I guess. This is what I get for not getting a Switch earlier. I actually have my copy of the game, but I haven't bought a Switch since I haven't had the time to yet. So it's been like trying to navigate a minefield trying to dodge spoilers. 
> 
> Fun fact, I actually did plan on my first fic for when I got back to writing after playing the game to be one centered around Jeralt and Byleth, but I wanted to play a game and get a good sense for their characters and their backstory first. But spoilers and emotions happened. I mean, Jeralt's a Fire Emblem dad, it was sorta expected. But still the cutscene was pretty emotional honestly and I genuinely enjoyed it, upset as I may be that I saw it by accident. And one MAJOR reminder, this scene was the only thing I was spoiled on! I have no context for it, no idea when in the story it occurs (I assume pre-timeskip since Byleth had the normal hair color), no idea what lead to it or what happened afterwards, and ABSOLUTELY NO CLUE ABOUT ANY OTHER MAJOR STORY THINGS. Other than the stuff shown or mentioned in the cutscene, everything else I wrote about in this fic are my own theories and guesses. So, please don't outright confirm how wrong or right I am on anything. You can be vague, of course, but please no direct spoilers! Thank you, and I hope you enjoyed the fic!


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